Hoffentlich Leiben
by harley-kenickie
Summary: Murphy Macmanus finds a new way of passing the time while his brother and he are prisoners in Hoag. Let's just say this new occupation deffinately does not go unnoticed. Or, occording to someone, this new interest could be considered obsession. READ TO FIND OUT WHAT. Kallie/Murphy.
1. Chapter 1

**Hoffentlich Leiben.**

**chapter one.**

* * *

Words spread onto paper as butter would onto bread. Letters smeared closer due to her left writing hand. Her short mane was down and covering her face. Back slouched, head cocked, and mind oblivious. Her light yellow and tattered jump suit blended in with her hair. A clipboard was in her opposing hand, keeping the raged writing at bay. A few composition books lay scattered over the minimal space the bed provided. She stopped momentarily, stretched backward, audibly popped her neck from side to side, feverishly tied what she could of her stringy hair into a hairband, and was back on top of the paper within moments. As the mysterious woman scribbled over her page, back facing the cell door, a handsome man stood watching.

His mouth twitched, enjoying the view.

Days; She wrote, each book seemed to own a different language, in which she took special pride in keeping organized. She would awake with a flowing bit of hair, and end the day with either a messy braid or single band. She always wore a signature yellow suit, occasionally with the top unzipped and a white tank top showing underneath. She left her cell each morning, silently making her way to the women's showers. She washed, she combed, she brushed, and she spritzed. She never stayed out of her single cell for more than an hour for this type of usual behavior.

Weeks; Every Sunday was eat-in, quick-to-bed, and few but far between bathroom breaks. Her writing seemed to liven with the gospel day. Every Monday was barely write, vaguely sleep, and stay in bed, stare at the ceiling. Her mind was off thinking of years before yesterday. Every Tuesday was wake-up early, write in the blue books pages for hours on end, and stay up late at night doing the same. Her hand worked on it's own half the time. Every Wednesday was no cell time, physical therapy, mandatory courtyard sitting, and never getting a look at the inside of her books. Her eyes darken this day, not light green or glimmering gold as usual; they showed no color on Wednesday. Every Thursday was psychiatrist therapy, red or black composition writing, and an early bedtime. Every Friday was almost ask the man outside the cell, and whom follows her around, what he wants. Her courage to do so never came on Friday. Every Saturday differed from every other day, or every other Saturday for that matter. Her mind lost it's way and she roamed the halls, or took too long of a shower, or doesn't even bother to look under the bed and into her dark chest at her notebooks. This day was a wildcard.

Months; Four months, he stood watching, waiting, and slowly growing to understand and like the woman in cell block F cell 15. Her prisoner number was 9815. He knew it all by heart, every number, every color surrounding her. Once, she looked him in the eye, took in his beauty (as did he), and quickly scampered off toward the showers. The next interaction occurred during lunch a week or so later. She had glanced at him again, got up and left her tray half full of food on the table for him. He took the offering with glee. Then, a full month later she spoke a mumbled thank you as he held a door for her to walk through. Two weeks later, she started a trend that lasted for the rest of her days; her hair stayed down and never went up. Occasionally a braid would come in, yet it was never just thrown together.

On a Wednesday, a month later, she sat in her cell at the end of the day. The man lay on the floor just outside, staring as always. Her next movements surprised him, yet he knew they would come eventually. The blond wonder pranced on over to her side of the cell bars, squat into a sitting position, and cleared her throat. She had not spoken clearly or in full sentences for nearly two years, he would later find out. He sat up, sharply. Their faces lined, with only his a bit taller, and they gleamed at each other in silence.

Her pale hand gracefully lifted her favorite notebook; the blue. Her lips parted, "Do you know German?"

He was visibly shocked by her faint Scottish accent, "Yeah."

"Really?" She smiled as wide as the Pacific. Her wrist cracked as the notebook slipped through the bars opening. The handsome man flipped through the nearly full book of writing, looking back up at her expecting an explanation. She was already back in her usual perch on the bed. Another notebook in hand.

He stood up, "And what is this about?" He internally cursed at himself for sounding double the amount of mean than he originally intended. He held the book with both hands and waited patiently for her reply. She took five more minutes just to finish her bit of writing. She turned around, letting her legs stretch out off the edge of the cot.

She smiled wickedly at him, "It's about a man who looses his mind after he finds out something extraordinary about his mother."

"Why'd you give it to me?" He looked at her confused.

The woman genuinely laughed, for the first time sense she was no younger than five, "For you to get out of my cell block, to go back into yours, and to read the damn thing. Then, you can come back and ask for another one."

"And what if I read it right here?" The man challenged her demanding words.

Her smile was faint, "Then you'd be reading it right there. Yet, I would hope you have something better to do than read a womans book in a language she hasn't had the change to speak in two years. Gussing, due to the way you're staring at me, you don't."

He squirmed uneasily under her gaze, "Well, to tell ya the truth. I think you're rather interesting."

"I don't know a damn thing about you, and you act like you do know me," He shook his head at her comment.

"No I don't. I just know and like your habits."

"Do you even have any of your own?"

"I guess I did once,"

"I know you,"

He fell silent.

"And I never gave a damn about it," She smiled, "Still don't."

A rumble shook the mans body, "Is that so?"

"Surprising?"

"N-well, yes."

She stood up, "Don't get me wrong, you and your brother have done good deeds. It just never directly effected me, actually not until I got in here. But, enough about that. You have a German book to read, and I've got an Italian book to finish writing. Now get to it."

"You're right, I do. Can I ask you something first?" He grew a bit nervous.

She sat back down, grabbed the red composition book, and looked back up at him in wait.

"What's your name?"

She laughed, "What's yours?"

"Murphy MacManus."

"Kallie Black."


	2. Chapter 2

**Hoffentlich Leiben.**

**chapter two**

**_Kallie/Murphy_**

* * *

"How long did it take you to write that?"

Kallie pulled a strand of hair behind one ear, "The week after I first got here, they let me have my notebooks."

"When was that?"

"Two years ago, or about to be two."

Murphy leaned against her open cell door, "I guess it makes sense."

She gave him a confused, yet frightening look.

"I mean, you are one of few women in here."

Her shrug was almost undetectable.

He boldly walked over and sat next to her on the bed. She vaguely moved away from him. She closed the black notebook she previously had been writing in. She stretched, fluffing her hair out in the process, and placed the book under the bed; on top of the chest full of writing utensils. Kallie noticed how Murphy sat comfortably; leaned casually back on the wall, legs dangling aimlessly, and his focus was completely on her.

She glanced at him through the corner of her eye, "What?"

"This is the most we've talked about you in two weeks. I was kind of hoping you would continue talking about yourself. You practically forced me to tell you my life story and you haven't even said a word about yourself. It's starting to make me wonder..."

Kallie anxiously said, "Wonder what?"

"Wonder if I should even trust you."

She fell back next to him as her laugh echoed throughout the cell block, "You can...and I think it's too late to be taking anything back, Murph."

"Then tell me about yourself. So I can know I should trust you," His smile was playful.

"That's a rather difficult thing to explain," Kallie shuffled uncomfortably, "Could we do this another time?"

Murphy placed a cautious hand on her shoulder, causing Kallie to shudder, and nodded his head to show he was comfortable with that as long as he found out at some point. She now leaned into his hand and chuckled. His hair was strung down over his ears and forehead, his hazel eyes bore into hers and broke any barrier they could find. Kallie turned toward him, sitting _Indian Style, _and playfully hit his chest.

"Wha?" He managed to get out. He straightened his slouch.

Her eyes went bright, "One second you're 'Mr. tough guy' and in the next you could be 'Mr. no don't draw attention to me,' or 'Mr. emotional.' You're a tornado of emotions, and actions."

Murphy looked at his hands, playing with the pages in the book he held, "You make a point."

"Uh-huh."

"You remember when I told you about Rocco?"

"Of course, the funny man," Her smile was soft.

"Well the morning of the coffee shop incident, Conner was trying to tell him what we thought really was going to happen in that hotel room if Conner and I hadn't shown up. He wouldn't have it, but when I came out I came guns blazing and I yelled and pushed Rocco so much he left in a fuckin' hurry. Then right before he went in, he phoned me from outside, and we were all nice and acting like what you would call caring idiots."

"You would be right," Her Scottish accent reflected off of his Irish.

"My point is, that so are you."

"I know," Her expression showed confidence and knowledge, as well as teasing, "I've known more about you than you've been able to notice, mister Murphy MacManus. You don't just act tough, you are. I'm still piecing together why that is exactly... Yet you are the most caring individual I have ever had the pleasure of meeting."

Kallie's words met true meaning as they found their way into Murphy's brain; never leaving. He let out a hurtful sigh and changed the subject to something he could have a bit more control of. Murphy was not a simple man and by no means did he believe that this woman, this fascinating woman was anything less than what he himself was. Utterly complex / stubborn / secretive / omniscient / alone .

"You got a family?" Little did Murphy know, that this question was one she had never been asked before. When her reaction of coiling beck into herself and locking the bolted down doors behind her flowed into motion, he was not prepared. Kallie stood up, moved towards her cell's bars, and held on so tight her fingers began to resemble those of a dead man's, or woman's. _The irony_, she now thought, thinking of a few things at once. Her eyes turned dark, deeper than on Wednesdays. This was not a topic she adored, as she did adore hearing about the MacManus family.

Murphy shot up off the cot, "I'm sorry..." He put the puzzle together, family was off limits, at least right that second, "Wrong thing to ask about, got it. Won't happen again. Uh, Kallie? Kall? Are you alright?"

He stood next to her a moment, examining all aspects of her face, squeezing his grip on the book she was letting him read, and rubbed his free hand over her back in a circular motion. Her eyes softened as they gazed onto his face. Hands freeing the bars of a near death expiriance and unnaturally reached for his rubbing hand and held tight. Swiftly letting him go she spoke with a delicate smile that seemed like it was not even there at all, "I'll see you tomorrow, Murphy."

"Tomorrow."


End file.
